


Icarus' Fall

by Unforth



Series: Prompt Fics: Supernatural [92]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: A little dark maybe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Consensual Enslavement, Dehumanization, Dom Castiel (Supernatural), Human Furniture, M/M, Sub Dean Winchester, Total Power Exchange, mentions of Dean/others, mentions of castiel/others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28960020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: So many of the sculptures at this month's gallery exhibition are disappointing that Castiel isn't sure why he's even bothered to attend...and then he sees Icarus.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Prompt Fics: Supernatural [92]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/708447
Comments: 18
Kudos: 118





	Icarus' Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HazelDomain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelDomain/gifts).



> Uh...this is probably the last thing anyone who sent me the prompt "Destiel and BDSM" was expecting but this idea grabbed me and I just could not let it go. I hope it's okay, I've never really written anything like this before...it's like three different things that would normally be a nope for me, but I just...yeah.
> 
> Also in case it's not clear, everything in this fic is absolutely consensual. I maybe didn't do enough in text to make that obvious, especially from Dean's PoV...sorry...
> 
> It also got even longer than my other prompt fics, oops (though it was also supposed to be a little longer, for reasons, and I also owe the prompter an apology for not getting it done yesterday. (and also it's unedited, I'm running low on time, sorry.)

A tuxedo-clad waiter paused at Castiel’s side, lowering a platter to show off the bubbling flutes of fine Champagne. Delicately taking one up by the stem, Castiel swirled the contents, sniffed the resulting aroma, and nodded his approval.

“Thank you. Reaching into his pocket, Castiel withdrew a dollar coin and placed it on the tray. Drinks were complimentary, but tipping was only polite. The waiter flashed him a grateful smile before she moved onto the next patron. 

Holding the flute casually, Castiel stood in place and turned a slow circle. He’d said his hellos to his few acquaintances among the other attendees, paid his entrance fee, shown his credentials, signed all the necessary releases and agreements, and verified that he was clean. Now, it was time to observe, and assess, and - perhaps, if he found the right piece - make a purchase. The room was a large warehouse space, remade into a trendy exhibition area. Circular platforms punctuated the space, seemingly placed at random, and upon each was a sculpture. Inset lighting and well-placed spotlights ensured that every work was highlighted in a circle of dazzling brilliance that showed every exquisite detail...and every mistake.

There, for example - a woman in a sweeping crimson dress curled her fingers in and out slowly, her movement casting strange shadows over her dress under the harsh lighting. Undignified, unprofessional, _most_ unworthy of a gallery display of this importance and magnitude. Castiel would have been shocked that such an amateurish sculpture had been admitted into the exhibition. An occasional blink could be forgiven - they were still human, after all - but movement? Unconscionable. Then again, Castiel had observed to his disappointment that the last few exhibitions had been substandard. Submission quality had declined significantly - in multiple senses of the word - and Castiel hadn’t made a purchase in several months.

Another movement caught his eye - a man, displayed in nude Apollonian glory, had _coughed_.

Perhaps Castiel’s high tastes had advanced beyond what the monthly exhibitions could provide. Such a pity; he had _very_ specific tastes, and finding another venue that catered to them would prove challenging.

Disappointed, Castiel took a sip of his Champagne and began to move among the crowd, intent on admiring, and disparaging, in earnest. People moved about him, talking and drinking, critiquing and appreciating, discussing aesthetics and techniques. There were perhaps two dozen works on display, and all the artists who had worked diligently to sculpt them were in attendance. All hoped to make a windfall - to lease out their sculpture for the day, or, if they were fortunate and their creation impressive enough, find a long-term purchaser for their work. Most would surely be disappointed in the later hope; there was far more to criticize than praise in these paltry offerings. This one - too easy a pose, sitting in a chair, for shame! That one - the sweeping folds of delicate fabric betrayed every quiver of flesh and twitch of tired muscles, pathetic. Another one - their fourth time in attendance, always in a new pose, and still not trained enough to keep from blinking every few seconds. 

As if anyone of taste and sensibility would purchase such a flawed work.

There was little of grace and beauty and less of true accomplishment amongst these sculptures, and nothing to gratify Castiel’s hopes that perhaps, finally, he’d find a piece worth his investment. The tall woman charging forward, flag in hand, Lady Liberty on the battlefield, was lovely and remarkably still despite her challenging pose, but she wasn’t to Castiel’s taste. If he found no one else, she _might_ be worth a single evening’s enjoyment, but...no. Why should Castiel settle? He was a connoisseur, and only the most exquisite submissions would do. 

None of the works here were nearly fine enough.

Perhaps Castiel should accept that he’d already seen the best the city had to offer. He’d found a handful of individuals worth hiring for an evening, and one for a week, but none with the beauty and staying power to adorn his home long-term. Castiel had standards - exacting requirements and exceptionally high expectations - if a sculpture wouldn’t look as beautiful in his bedroom as in his kitchen as in his garden - if a sculpture wouldn’t be as accommodating in his arms as away from him - if a sculpture wouldn’t make a pleasing appearance at his side at company functions - what was even the point?

Pausing before each dais, Castiel examined, and found fault, and sank further into peevish disdain. A few sculptors dared to approach him - “do you like my pet? Isn’t my offering fine? It’s reasonably priced too!” - and Castiel dismissed them with an indifferent stare. Presumptuous neophytes, daring to think they had a right to push their paltry offerings forward for his notice. A waste of Castiel’s time, every one of them - every so-called artist, every pitiful sculpture, every…

Green eyes arrested Castiel as he circled a knot of appreciative onlookers. Clear and brilliant, shining like gemstones under the spotlights, they brought Castiel to a stop and silenced his font of criticisms. An ionic columnar plinth had been placed in the center of a display dais, and atop it balanced perfection in sculpted form: a nude man with an exquisite physique, standing on his tiptoes, arms thrown back and to the sides, head lolling to one side, enormous feathered wings mounted on his back. The pose evoked many of the finest works of history - Jesus on the Cross, Gabriel at the Annunciation, Odette cursed - while still preserving the obvious core intent of depicting Icarus tumbling from grace. The sculpture had the vibrancy of life while maintaining the immobility of finest carved marble. Icarus seemed to have been caught mid-fall, moments before being crushed against the unforgiving glass. 

And, most impressively?

The man was _perfectly_ still.

Truly, the longer Castiel looked, the more perfection he found.

His skin was immaculate, smooth and gorgeous, flawlessness emphasized by the smattering of freckles that blossomed, sun-kissed, over the arch of his nose and across his cheeks.

His body was shaved clean, save for his finely styled hair, trim and brown and caught up with product to emphasize his apparent plummet toward doom.

His form was balletic, muscles tensed to emphasize every cut line.

His strength was remarkable, maintaining such an advanced pose with an ease that put every sculpture Castiel had seen that day to shame.

Icarus was a dancer caught mid-motion, an actor captured in one perfect moment of pathos, a butterfly mounted by a collector so that all could admire eternally.

And Castiel wanted...Castiel _craved_...seeing such a remarkable work mounted in his own home.

Pacing around the dais, Castiel paused, and admired...paused, and admired...paused, and admired...paused, and admired...over minutes, viewed from every angle, Castiel couldn’t find a single blemish, the least fault, a moment’s weakness. As far as Castiel observed, Icarus didn’t even blink.

Castiel had never, _never_ , wanted anything more.

“Do you like what you see?” A melodious woman’s voice, accented and lilting, caught Castiel’s attention. Annoyance at the interruption flickered through him, but there was something to her tone that caused Castiel to suspect she might be the artist - the first of those he’d seen that night who truly deserved that appellation - and if she was, Castiel longed to meet her and learn more. So, he tore his gaze from Icarus and turned to her. She was a work of art herself, dark red hair elaborately coifed, body swathed in green velvet, one arm raised and holding her Champagne with a show of elegant negligence. He’d seen her around, he thought - as a buyer, though, not as a creator, and a niggle of fear suggested he might have competition should he seek to purchase Icarus.

“I do,” said Castiel warily.

“Pssh, relax, kitten,” she said. “I’m the owner, not the opposition. And you - you’re Castiel Krushnic, aren’t you.”

It wasn’t a question, but Castiel replied “I am” anyway.

“I’m Rowena, and this is Dean - my finest work.” Rowena laid a hand on the sculpture’s supporting leg. Dean didn’t quiver, didn’t tremble, didn’t react in anyway. _Glorious_ . “It’s a wrench to give it up, but the maintenance of such a work is...intense...and so I thought perhaps, if I could find the right collector, I could perhaps part with it.” Her expression read, plainly, _are you that collector_ ? and Castiel was prepared to do _anything_ to prove that he was.

“Name your price,” he said.

“What do _you_ think such a masterpiece is worth?” she countered. A test, Castiel knew - if Castiel recognized Dean’s worth, she might permit Castiel to purchase him; naming a reasonable price required knowing market rate, recognizing value, understanding the nature of the business...considering, Castiel did a slow circle around the work. If anything, he was even more impressed than he’d been after surveying it the first time. Immaculate, sublime, transcendent...he could think of no superlative adequate.

“Truly,” Castiel breathed, “I would pay _anything_ for merely a night alone to admire such work.”

“Apologies - I should make clear, I’m only looking for a permanent home for Dean. It’s too precious for me to be comfortable seeing it passed around. Forever, or not at all.”

“That’s a big commitment for a work I’ve not even seen in my home yet…”

“Either it’s worth it to you, or it’s not,” she shrugged. “I promise you - you’ll never find it’s match. I’ve dedicated myself to excising every least imperfection, sanding out the smallest splinter, ever striving toward perfection. It's concessions to whatever usage I deem appropriate is on file, as is signed sales consent. If you appreciate it and all the work I've done on it, then make your offer and perhaps it can be yours, and adorn your life as it has long adorned mine. If not…I’d rather keep it than see it disrespected. I’ll not see it abused by anyone who can’t respect the level accomplishment it displays.”

“Indeed,” Castiel murmured, and made a show of examining Dean again as if there was the least doubt in his mind.

“Not that I doubt your qualifications,” added Rowena. “I chose this gallery because of its renown. Only the best works, and only the best clientele. I’ve seen the documentation you’ve filed; I’m open to any reasonable offer you might make.”

Even if Dean proved unsuited to Castiel’s needs, it would still be a splendid accoutrement in his life, a dazzling jewel to mount at his side, a thing of beauty to be enthroned and admired by his friends and acquaintances.

“A million dollars,” said Castiel.

A gallery goer standing nearby gasped and dropped their Champaign. The crystal shattered, scattering shards and liquid over the plinth and peppering Dean’s leg. A piece embedded in the sculpture’s leg, forcing out a single bead of blood that made a sinuous line down it’s calf.

And _still_ it didn’t move.

And Castiel _had_ to have it.

A million dollars was unheard of...the most Castiel had ever heard of someone offering was a few hundred thousand...but could a price truly be put on perfection?

“Two million,” he amended.

Rowena broke into a slow smile. “I appreciate nothing so much as a man of taste and understanding.”

“You accept my offer?”

“I do, and a pleasure doing business with you,” she replied. “Shall I tell the establishment owner, or shall you?”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Castiel. Weaving through the crowd - most now staring at him and murmuring in awe - Castiel found the exhibit master and pointing toward where Dean stood head and shoulders above the other sculptures. “That one.” Castiel’s lips spread into a pleased, anticipatory smile. “I’ll take that one. Please charge my account on file.”

“Excellent choice, sir. Shall I have it boxed and delivered to your home?”

“Immediately.”

The gallery master bowed and moved away, tapping at his phone to make the necessary arrangements.

Returning to Dean’s side, Castiel did another slow circle around his purchase.

Not a hair, not a freckle, not a twitch, not the least detail out of place. The thin trail of blood had reached the floor, a perfect line proving that Dean had maintained it’s... _his_...pose, his poise, his sculptural excellence, without the least mistake.

Finally, after searching so long, Castiel had found what he’d sought: a true work of art.

Castiel had found perfection.

**Author's Note:**

> Check me out on social media!  
> Tumblr: [unforth](https://unforth.tumblr.com/) (very multifandom with a decent amount of politics/social justice)  
> Twitter: [unforth](https://twitter.com/unforth) (mostly MDZS/CQL, with a splash of multifandom and also a decent amount of politics/social justice, cause sorry, them's the times)  
> Discord: unforth#6748


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